


AWAKE

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Burning bright, a field on fire.





	1. // 1

 

He wakes with a heaving chest and the crushing weight of countless emotions bashing against the insides of his skull like angry insistent drums.  
And there is that face.  
He’d seen it so many times it had become embedded into his memory, carved into the backs of eyes and haunting him with its presence.   
It was part of him now. A beautifully painted canvas hanging in his mind permanently. He could see it always.

It started with small doodles of distinct features: the bumpy arch of an imperfectly chiselled nose, intense eyes accompanied by heavy bags of dread and pain, full lips that sat in a near constant state of indifferent misery. And then it grew. Some days it became too loud in his head, the face screaming a familiar name in bouts of terror and agony, fingers that weren’t there clinging to him for dear life. On such occasions he would find himself sobbing for the beautiful stranger, a horrific sensation of longing and sympathy pooling in his gut. He felt every ounce of this man’s hurt. And each time he experienced it, it killed him to know he could do nothing about it. He could never put him at ease.

And when he woke, he woke to a room full of paintings; different angles, expressions, details. Same face. Paintings that he’d created.  
He woke to a room decorated with the face of a man that didn’t exist. A man he had never seen outside the cruel confinements of his mind. A man he had grown to care for, in a sense.

And he felt hopeless; completely empty and alone in a world in which the face of his dreams did not exist. A world in which the man he had begun to obsess over and devote his life to did not exist. Life had no purpose anymore. He was forever searching for someone he’d never find, and he’d been searching for so long.

  
The earliest memory he had was from his childhood, he was probably only seven, the abundance of happy, careless feelings overshadowing his experience at the time, but it was never something he was able to forget. The abrupt voice in his ear:

“Please do not look so pained.” A tone so warm with reassurance, “You are far more valuable than you seem to realise.”

He would never understand what was meant by the statement or why he had heard it in the first place, but it was something that had stuck with him and shaken him to the core for the past 9 years. Each day he hoped to hear that statement again, that tone. But each time he was met with groans of terror and sorrow.   
And it only got worse.

He got used to the voice sobbing in his mind, yelling orders he didn’t understand and uttering metaphors he had not context for. In fact, it had become a regular presence throughout his earlier years; and then when he reached thirteen, the voice grew a body.

The body was that of a tall man - between 6’1” and 6’3”, he had estimated - that was evidently built to fight. An empty patch for a face framed by well-kept blonde hair.  
The man often donned a uniform that had confused the teenager to no end, all of the different straps and buckles serving purposes that he couldn’t quite figure out. Other times he was without the straps, but still wore clothes that one could assume was suitable work attire. He was a seemingly busy man.  
It was rare that he would see the stranger stripped, but it happened. Flashes of wonderfully aged skin tight against impressive muscles, scars decorating the otherwise heavenly body.

And then the flashes turned to visions, moving images of the mysterious stranger soaring through the air, faceless but evidently passionate in his movements. There was no mistake, the man wasn’t graceful or elegant by any means, but he bore great determination with each and every action. He seemed to have a goal in life, a purpose; and he’d do anything to reach it.

As the boy drew further into his teens, these scenes became darker. The man was no longer a free bird flying through skies. He was prey.  
The voice of strength and hope fell to screams of pain and death.   
The boy grew to understand that the person he had come to care for lived in a world much different to his own, surrounded by danger and hate. And as always, he could do nothing.

It was when he hit sixteen that his companion gained a face.

Cheekbones high and admirable, jaw sharp and gorgeously defined. His nose was somewhat large but within the proportions of his face, creating a captivating harshness that the young man could only hope to achieve. He was beautiful in every sense of the word. A bright light that caused the rest of the world to fade into a dull haze.   
And he had become everything. An inescapable phantom hanging over the young man’s head at all times; awake, asleep, it didn’t matter anymore. He was trapped by the non existent stranger and he had no way out. He was trapped by the snippets of the blonde’s life, his happiness, sadness, agony, everything. And at this point, he could think of no one else.

He only wished he had a name.

Sometimes he thinks he hears it tearing from his own throat in choked sobs when he dreams. But he never remembers. It always disappears. He always disappears.

  
The dark haired teen rises from his bed, covered in a sheen of cold sweat, limbs trembling with the aftershock of another nightmare.   
They were really starting to take their toll on him.  
The boy stood to about 5”2’ and held a somewhat irritated resting expression, decorated by bags under his eyes brought on by his blonde companion. His face wasn’t quite as harsh as the other man, but contained very sharp masculine features nonetheless. His nose had a tiny bump on the bridge but was otherwise small and straight, his lips only slightly too plump to be considered thin. His skin bore shocking resemblance to porcelain, but held patches of pink and red around his cheeks and nose.  
He wasn’t perfect, but handsome in his own unique way.

Fatigued, unbalanced feet carried him to the mirror across his room where he repeated his name over to himself several times in a weak attempt to pull himself back into reality; ground himself.

“Dominique. Dominique. _Dominique_.”

His skin itched. He picked at it.  
His voice was a broken whisper. It didn’t feel right - nothing felt right. His name, his family, his friends, his life. It wasn’t him.   
He ran shaky fingers through his jet black mop of hair. It was reasonably long and wavy, falling around his chin. He hated it. It wasn’t him.  
He began to pace around his room, grumbling to himself in hurried, anxious instructions.

“Get scissors. _Get scissors_. I need scissors.”

After a few seconds of frantic searching in his bedside dresser he managed to find some, snatching them up out of the drawer. Scissors in hand, he returned to the mirror. He looked at his face, tortured by the pictures in his head. So ugly. So tired.  
There was a second face beneath his skin; older, angrier.   
It screamed at him.

And then he cut at his hair, chunks of it falling to the ground with each swift movement. As his hands grabbed at hair tears built up in his eyes; sometimes the overwhelming feeling grew too strong for him to battle. The feeling of not being himself. The presence of this second life within him.  
He wanted to be strong enough to combat it, to fight it alone.

But that was just it: he couldn’t stand the loneliness. The empty feeling in his chest.  
It hurt so much to be without the dream stranger, but how could he miss someone who had never existed in the first place?  
He must be crazy.

He’d hacked his hair to a shorter mop that sat surprisingly neatly beneath his ears. It wasn’t horrific, but it needed some work. It was enough to satisfy the shouting behind his skull for the time being.   
And he could rest once more.

He crawled into his cold, empty bed and sobbed until sleep took him once more.

He woke to an empty house and walls that closed in on him with each movement.

 


	2. //2

 

The days surrounded by a fussy, loud family were hard.  
The days alone were harder.

Dominique busied himself with various activities: painting, playing instruments, anything. Anything that helped numb the constant ache of his chest and the tremors behind his eyes. It barely worked but he took pride in the fact that he’d put the effort in to try in the first place. However, he was even less productive in the area of school work. He was seventeen, adult life was approaching him quickly, but he did nothing to welcome it. He couldn’t concentrate anymore and attempting to just hurt more; failing didn’t sting as much if he didn’t plan to succeed in the first place. It pained him to know just how hopeless he’d become. It scared him that he was so unprepared for life. Pathetic.  
He didn’t expect much for his future, not while his sole purpose in life revolved around a man that didn’t exist. He tended to wonder how far he’d make it before giving up completely. Part of him was excited for it. He’d go to a therapist if he felt as though it was an option, but it absolutely wasn’t. He couldn’t tell anyone about the man, not only for fear of sounding utterly out of his mind, but for fear of having him ripped away. It was ruining him inside and out but the thought of mentally leaving the man behind made his heart sink.

Dominique rose from his bed with a long yawn, the light of morning cracking through his blinds and projecting lines of sun across his clothed body. It was relieving to be without the sound of screaming children. He loved his younger siblings but there were times where they became too much for him to handle. At least being alone he could receive small moments of clarity and silence, but it never lasted long; he was still extremely grateful for those moments.

Ugly, bare feet made their way out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the bathroom where he proceeded to shit, shower and shave. He finished off his small morning ritual with 5 minutes of brushing his teeth, gazing almost dumbly at himself in the mirror. He still felt disgusting. There was a lingering, invisible sheen of filth that covered him, and no matter how hard he scrubbed and brushed, it never left. It made him feel ill. Made him want to peel off his skin until he was completely free of it.  
The young man spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth and brush before leaving once more to his bedroom.  
His room was small, perhaps only three times the size of the single wooden bed that sat beside the door. But it was enough - as long as he could get on with the things he needed to, it was enough. The walls were painted a pale blue and were covered in his sketches and paintings, the only anomaly being a small mirror on the wall to the right of his bed. The floor was carpeted and clear, only 4 pieces of furniture covering it: a bed, 2 dressers and a wardrobe. Many of the surfaces were littered with candles and art supplies all sorted into pots. And to complete it, a guitar sat against his bed - he’d saved up for it a couple of years ago but rarely played it.

He walked over to the window opposite his bed and cranked it open before pulling a near empty pack of cigarettes from its hiding place under his pillow.

If his mother found out she’d kill him.  
Though he had guessed it would be out of fear of him ruining her reputation even more rather than actual care for his wellbeing.

He sparked one up and took a long drag, staring through his blinds and studying the world outside. It was bright and colourful with the kiss of the morning light. So beautiful. So pointless. Each flower, each beautiful, individual part of nature would die in the arrival of winter. Everything died in time.

What time was it anyway?

Dominique padded back to his bed to grab his phone from the nightstand, cigarette resting between his chapped, scabbing lips. He never felt the need for a smart phone, social media just stressed him out and cluttered his thoughts further. So he stuck to his trusty blackberry - it was good enough. Got the job done.

He prodded the centre button and the screen flashed to life.

10:37am

The short boy puffed a plume of smoke from his lips and sighed. Wondered where his family had gone today. Wondered why they hadn’t woken him, invited him to go with them. Wondered if he even cared about it.  
It wasn’t abnormal for them to leave him out of things, he could only assume that his company was not wanted. But even he could admit that he wasn’t the most cheerful soul. It was probably for the best anyway, they’d only end up arguing.  
Plus, he felt like being productive; working out, cleaning, maybe even finishing some homework. Things he never usually got around to doing. He hoped today would be different, that perhaps he could clear some things off of his long list of to-do’s. 

But he was wrong. As usual, the day flew away from him in a haze of cigarette smoke and ongoing waves of panic, the voice of an unknown man echoing around a house Dominique knew was empty. Without the noise of his family, Dom was left alone with the voice, nothing to distract him from it or hide it. There was absolutely no way of ignoring it.  
Every now and then he would reply, try and answer it’s questions - have conversations. But it never worked, the man never heard him and it made him feel invisible.

  
‘How many hundreds of men do you think I’ve sent out to be eaten by titans?’ The voice questioned; he sounded so close, so real. If the boy hadn’t known any better he’d assume the man was right next to him. Sometimes if he closed his eyes he could see him, imagine his large body lingering nearby.

“I don’t know... I don’t know what you’re fucking on about? What are titans? Who are you?” Dominique rasped into the emptiness of his room, the new, undefined word feeling so familiar on his tongue. He was perched on his bed as his body shook, fingers lacing in his hair and scraping at his scalp.  
Titans?  
“Why do you say such vague shit... fuck, please, give me something.” Nails dug into his skin.

‘One arm isn’t nearly enough to make up for that’  
That’s right, in his dreams Dom recalled seeing him without his arm, in that bed... But he wasn’t there when it was lost, at least he didn’t think so; that or he hadn’t dreamt of it yet. Was that the problem? Should he have been? Had he let him down? Was that why he was here?

“I’m sorry, I should have been there.” Levi choked on guilt.

“How did it happen? Was it my fault?” Dominique stared at nothing in particular as he spoke, it stopped his eyes from frantically searching around the room for the man in his head. He held no recollection of the words that had previously come out of him.

‘I hope I’ll be able to pay back the rest when I end up in hell...’ There was no sign of self pity in his voice, just anger - regret. It hurt.

“Shut the fuck up you as-“ Dom bit back on the involuntary snap the voice’s response drew from within him, correcting himself. “No, you’re a good person. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen you in my dreams. Just... who are you? Please?” He asked every single time. He never got an answer. No number of tears, screams and tantrums would bring it, it was just something forever out of his reach.

But he always asked.

  
After that the voice left, drenching Dominique in the deafening silence once more, words and questions repeating themselves in the form of the boy’s hushed muttering. The skin on his arms and scalp had started to bleed from hours of obsessive picking and scratching. He felt completely insane and was open to admit that he looked the part, too. At least he was still with-it enough to maintain a shred of self awareness. Though, self awareness wouldn’t heal the pain nor would it make him feel any better. An hour later he found himself dry heaving over the toilet when the nausea that came with each passing day became too much to bare.

With that, his family returned.

6:42pm

His little sisters meant the world to him; however annoying they were, the little smiles on their faces melted away every ounce of anger the boy could contain. They were five and six. So small and untouched by the cruelty of the world, devoid of malice or hate. He only wished he could spend more time with them, be a better brother, one they deserved. They loved him, looked up to him even, and it crushed him to turn away from their attempts to play and talk with him. But sometimes being around them wasn’t the safest option. He didn’t want them to witness the product of his nerves and misery. They didn’t need something like that in their lives.

His mother.  
She was a stern, hefty woman with a narrow grimace and a sour attitude, similar to himself in a way. Whenever he caught glimpses of her within himself it filled him to the very brim with disgust. He never wanted to be anything like her. It was needless to say she had no redeeming qualities; her moral bankruptcy adding to her ugliness, she was hideous inside and out and Dom could only pity the child she carried in her stomach, knowing exactly what it would be coming out to.

His father wasn’t around.  
They’d met. They’d spoken. But he wasn’t around - not that he could blame him.  
His presence had been taken by his mother’s bigoted boyfriend whom she could not stop having kids with. Dominique swore they intended to turn the house into some sort of gooey baby farm. The idea of it made him feel sick.

  
“Dee, get your ass down here, _now_.” His mother’s voice pierced the walls and travelled up to his room. And of course, he obeyed, trotting down the stairs, basketball shorts and a baggy t-shirt hanging from his small frame. He was almost certain he had no clothes that really fit him, unsure he really wanted some anyway.

“Yes?” He muttered upon approaching the doorway of the living room in which his mother sat. She barely even looked at him upon his arrival, as if she couldn’t even stomach the thought.

“I thought I asked you to clean this shit up?” She spat, gesturing to the small pile of children’s toys strewn about the floor. Dominique knew a mess when he saw one and this, was in fact, not it. It was a piss-easy job that could be completed by just about anyone in a matter of seconds.

“I haven’t even seen you today?” He’d not even gone downstairs today.

“I don’t want to hear the excuses young lady-“

“Mum, please.” He gave his mother a pleading look, something he shouldn’t have to do. She should understand. She should care. He had told her about it her many years ago, and he could understand that as a parent she may struggle getting her head around it, but after so much time had passed there were only so many excuses she could give him for being the way she was.

“Oh fucking stop with that shit, Dominique. You’re too old for this now. I meant what I said about kicking you out. If you’re old enough for all these fucking ‘ _hormones_ ’, you’re old enough to go and live by yourself.”

“Mum-“

“No, Dee. I’ve had enough. How long do I have to sit around waiting for you to pull your finger out of your ass and do something? What do you fucking contribute to this family? You just shut yourself in that room all day. You don’t give a shit about any of us.”

“That’s not true.” He murmured, although he knew - for the most part - what she was saying was right. He cared, he absolutely cared, but he was a shut in. It wasn’t a choice and he knew that, if he could bare to be around others he would, but he knew his limits. He knew when his presence would cause conflict and he avoided it as much as he could. He wasn’t any good at being part of a family and he was reminded of it everyday of his life.

The woman sat for a moment, lips pursed and eyes set forward, staring into nothing as she thought. Dominique could only imagine the things going through her head; he prayed that they stay put.

“Just fuck off.” She sighed in defeat. It wasn’t the witty, argumentative response he was expecting but he was definitely happier with it.  
  
And so he did as he was asked, crawling back to his isolated retreat with anger settling heavy in the pit of his stomach.  
He wished he had the guts to kill himself, if not only to teach her a lesson then to rid himself her shitty attitude and the hell he was put through daily by the beautiful dream man. He hoped that someday she would regret the way she treated him, maybe through some sort of tragic spin of events or journey of self discovery. But her regret would not be coming any time soon, if at all.

Today was a bad day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops

**Author's Note:**

> Shall I carry this on? Not overly confident in my writing but i enjoy doing it so ?? I dunno


End file.
